The Mad God's Amulet
- Автор: Муркок Майкл
- Серия: The History of the Runestaff #2
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Фэнтези
Электронная книга - «The Mad God's Amulet». Краткое содержание книги:
Muffled by the dust, the horse's hooves thudded through the streets as Hawkmoon headed toward the plaza, crying Oladahn's name. But again he was answered only by echoes. In the plaza there was no sign of the little mountain man.
Hawkmoon frowned, almost certain now that he and Oladahn had not, after all, been alone in the city.
Yet there was no sign of inhabitants.
He turned his horse toward the streets. As he did so his ears caught a faint sound from above. He looked upward, his eyes searching the sky, certain that he recognized the sound. At last he saw it-a distant black shape in the air overhead. Then sunlight flashed on metal, and the sound became distinct, a clanking and whirring of giant bronze wings. Hawkmoon's heart sank.
The thing descending from the sky was unmistakably an ornate ornithopter, wrought in the shape of a gigantic condor, enameled in blue, scarlet, and green.
No other nation on Earth possessed such vessels. It was a flying machine of the Dark Empire of Granbretan.
Now Oladahn's disappearance was fully explained.
The warriors of the Dark Empire were present in Soryandum. It was more than likely, too, that they had recognized Oladahn and knew that Hawkmoon could not be far away. And Hawkmoon was the Dark Empire's most hated opponent.
Chapter Two
HUILLAM d'AVERC
HAWKMOON MADE for the shadows of the streets, hoping that he had not been seen by the ornithopter.
Could the Granbretanians have followed him all the way across the dessert? It was unlikely. Yet what else explained their presence in this remote place? - Hawkmoon drew his great battle blade from its scabbard and then dismounted. In his clothes of thin silk and cotton he felt more than ordinarily vulnerable as he ran through the streets seeking cover.
Now the ornithopter flew only a few feet above the tallest towers of Soryandum, almost certainly searching for Hawkmoon, the man whom the KingEmperor Huon had sworn must be revenged upon for his "betrayal" of the Dark Empire. Hawkmoon might have slain Baron Meliadus at the battle of Hamadan, but without doubt King Huon had swiftly dispatched a new emissary upon the task of hunting down the hated Hawkmoon.
The young Duke of Koln had not expected to journey without danger, but he had not believed that he would be found so soon.
He came to a dark building, half in ruins, whose cool doorway offered shelter. He entered the building and found himself in a hallway with walls of pale, carved stone partly overgrown with soft mosses and blooming lichens. A stairway ran up one side of the hall, and Hawkmoon, blade in hand, climbed the winding, moss-carpeted steps for several flights until he found himself in a small room into which sunlight streamed through a gap in the wall where the stones had fallen away. Flattening himself against the wall and peering around the broken section, Hawkmoon saw a large part of the city, saw the ornithopter wheeling and dipping as its vulture-masked pilot searched the streets.
There was a tower of faded green granite not too distant. It stood roughly in the center of Soryandum, dominating the city. The ornithopter circled this for some time, and at first Hawkmoon guessed that the pilot believed him to be hidden there, but then the flying machine settled on the flat, battlement-surrounded roof of the tower. From somewhere below other figures emerged to join the pilot.
These men were evidently of Granbretan also.
They were all clad in heavy armor and cloaks, with huge metal masks covering their heads, in spite of the heat. Such was the twisted nature of Dark Empire men that they could not rid themselves of their masks whatever the circumstances. They seemed to have a deeprooted psychological reliance on them.
The masks were of rust red and murky yellow, fashioned to resemble rampant wild boars, with fierce, jeweled eyes that blazed in the sunlight and great ivory tusks curling from the flaring snouts.
These, then, were men of the Order of the Boar, infamous in Europe for its savagery. There were six of them standing by their leader, a tall, slender man whose mask was of gold and bronze and much more delicately wrought-almost to the point of caricaturing the mask of the Order. The man leaned on the arms of two of his companions-one squat and bulky, the other virtually a giant, with naked arms and legs of almost inhuman hairiness. Was the leader ill or wounded? wondered Hawkmoon. There seemed to be something almost artificial about the way he leaned on his men-something theatrical. Hawkmoon thought then that he knew who the Boar leader was. It was almost certainly the renegade Frenchman Huillam d'Averc, once a brilliant painter and architect, who had joined the cause of Granbretan long before they has conquered France. An enigma, D'Averc, but a dangerous man for all that he affected illness.
Now the Boar leader spoke to the vulture-masked pilot, who shook his head. Evidently he had not seen Hawkmoon, but he pointed toward the spot where Hawkmoon had abandoned his horse. D'Averc-if it was D'Averc-languidly signed to one of his men, who disappeared below, to reemerge almost at once with a struggling, snarling Oladahn.
Relieved, Hawkmoon watched as two of the boarmasked warriors dragged Oladahn close to the battlements. At least his friend was alive.
Then the Boar leader signed again, and the vulture pilot leaned into the cockpit of his flying machine and withdrew a bell-shaped megaphone, which he handed to the giant on whose arm the leader still rested. The giant placed this close to the snout of his master's mask.
Suddenly the quiet air of the city was filled with the bored, world-weary voice of the Boar leader.
"Duke von Koln, we know that you are present in this city, for we have captured your servant. In an hour the sun will set. If you have not delivered yourself to us by that time, we must begin to kill the little fellow…"
Now Hawkmoon knew for certain that it was D'Averc. No other man alive could both look and sound like that. Hawkmoon saw the giant hand the megaphone back to the pilot and then, with the help of his squat companion, help his master to the partially ruined battlement so that D'Averc could lean against it and look down into the streets.
Hawkmoon controlled his fury and studied the distance between his building and the tower. By jumping through the gap in the wall he could reach a series of flat roofs that would take him close to a pile of fallen masonry heaped against one wall of the tower.
From there he saw that he could easily climb to the battlements. But he would be seen as soon as he left his cover. It would be possible to take that route only at night-and by nightfall they would have begun torturing Oladahn.
Perplexed, Hawkmoon fingered the black jewel, sign of his former slavery to Granbretan. He knew that if he gave himself up he would be killed instantly or be taken back to Granbretan and there killed with terrible slowness for the pleasure of the perverted lords of the Dark Empire. He thought of Yisselda, to whom he had sworn to return, of Count Brass, whom he had sworn to aid in the struggle against Granbretan -and he thought of Oladahn, with whom he had sworn friendship after the little beast-man had saved his life.
Could he sacrifice his friend? Could he justify such an action, even if logic told him that his own life was of greater worth in the fight against the Dark Empire?
Hawkmoon knew that logic was of no use here. But he knew, too, that his sacrifice might be useless, for there was no guarantee that the Boar leader would let Oladahn go once Hawkmoon had delivered himself up.
Hawkmoon bit his lips, gripping his sword tightly; then he came to a decision, squeezed his body through the gap in the wall, clung to the stonework with one hand, and waved his bright blade at the tower.
D'Averc looked up slowly.